“Well,” he said with a slow drawl, “you better shoot that sumbitch before he springs up on ya and bites your head off.”
“Forget it old man!”
“I’m not fuckin’ around son. Kill ‘em before his choppers get the better of ya!”
Sure, we had only just met, me changing my tire, the old man passing by in the thick Texas dust of the gravel road we were on, but I felt a strange kinship to him. Like I said, I was changing my tire, and an old pickup came rumbling to a halt (I could hear him well before he arrived; that vehicle was held together with duct tape), and suddenly, a furry purple people eater jumped out of nowhere with the clear intention of sending me straight to hell, or at least to his stomach. Thankfully, the old man had been there, been there with his shotgun (wait, why did he have a shotgun?) and picked the little guy off in mid leap.
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